Donnie Pfaster Profile of a Fetishist
by Piper Sargasso
Summary: A glimpse inside the mind of a death fetishist. Written in Donnie's point of view. Complete


Donnie Pfaster – Profile of a Fetishist

By Piper Sargasso

Disclaimer: Recognizable characters within belong to CC, 1013  
Productions and Twentieth-Century Fox. No infringement is intended.  
  
Author's Note: This is a companion piece to "Satin" and "The Yearning." All deal with the disturbing subject of death fetishism. As such, this story may be upsetting to some. 

I haven't gone into great detail here, but I want to caution everyone before diving in. Eternal thanks to the amazing Mimic, the fastest beta in all the land!  
  
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
Growing up in the Twin Cities, I was the favorite among my sisters.  
The baby of the family. Each doted on me endlessly, from my earliest  
childhood memories to the day I fell from their grace.  
  
My childhood was wholly unremarkable. I played and went to school,  
like any other child, though the children at school teased me  
relentlessly, calling me "weirdo". They would toss bits of their lunch  
at me in the cafeteria and steal pencils out of my desk.  
  
Those things were unimportant to me. I always knew I was special.  
  
Other than that, there is little to tell. As I've said, it was  
unremarkable. Not like now. Now, my life has meaning. Substance. I no  
longer crave Mother's love.  
  
At times I can still hear her demanding, judgmental voice, irritated  
and angry with me:  
  
"Donnie, would it kill you to smile once in a while?"  
  
"Donnie, must you always sneak around here like a little spy? I swear,  
you're the strangest child I've ever seen. None of your sisters ever  
behaved this way!"  
  
Or, when she was drunk on vodka and cranberry juice, her drink of  
choice after Father's death:  
  
"Donald Addie Pfaster, you look at me that way again and I'll knock  
the livin' hell outta you, do you understand me, young man?"  
  
I'd been on the receiving end of her belt for years, though my sisters  
never knew it. They never saw the red welts she strategically placed  
on my back and buttocks. *They* were fawned over, treated with love  
and compassion. My own father never even found out what Mother did to  
me while he was away on business. No one knew of the anger and hatred  
that dwelt behind the smiling image of the perfect wife and mother. It  
was our little secret. And I was always very good at keeping secrets.  
  
Whenever she flew into a fury, I retreated deep within myself. I  
learned to make myself numb, pretending to be Susan or Miranda,  
sometimes even Rachael.  
  
My sisters. They were beautiful creatures who accepted me and  
generously doled out the love Mother so greedily hoarded. Susan was  
the oldest. She married in her early twenties and moved out of the  
house. Andrea was the second. Like Susan, she married soon after  
college graduation. Miranda went away to Virginia Tech straight out of  
high school. We saw very little of her after that. Rachael was the  
youngest of the four daughters. She treated me like I was her baby  
doll most of the time.  
  
All four of them were the carbon copy of Mother - they looked exactly  
like her. All four petted and hugged me constantly, maternal and  
treating me as their own. This was my life as a child, the youngest of  
a family of women.  
  
  
  
It was interesting that, despite their love for me, I found myself  
fantasizing about murdering them in their sleep very early on,  
savoring their screams while the blood spilled readily from their  
bodies onto the sheets. In my mind, I held funerals and graveside  
services for my beloved sisters.  
  
By the time I was fifteen, Susan, Andrea and Miranda were out of the  
house, living their perspective lives. Rachael attended a community  
college while she stayed at home with Mother and I. She took care of  
the house while Mother stayed in her room and mourned for my father.  
His passing the year before didn't faze me as it did them. Death is  
not something I fear, nor do I shun it. Death is beautiful. It's a  
thing to be preserved and treasured. I envied my father.  
  
Eventually, I found a way to make myself happy, to fill in the void  
Mother created in my heart, despite the love of my sisters. It was  
just the three of us at that point and though Rachael was kind, Mother  
still made her hatred toward me very clear.  
  
One night, I snuck into Rachael's room while she was away at classes  
and rifled through her closets. She had the most stunning dresses of  
all my sisters, but wasn't quite tall enough to have the appropriate  
sizes for me. I was discouraged and nearly gave up on the whole idea  
when I remembered the unwanted clothes Susan had left behind in her  
closet. My search produced a lovely green dress with ruffles and  
sequins. I dressed hastily and returned to Rachael's room.  
  
Her vanity was filled with trinkets and tidbits of interest. I sifted  
through a wicker basket of makeup she had there and chose my colors  
carefully, recalling all the times I'd spent watching my older  
siblings apply their makeup in preparation for a date or other event.  
They'd satisfied my curiosity with their teasing answers to my  
questions, unknowingly preparing me for that moment.  
  
Once I was comfortably seated, I began a ritual that would fill my  
nights for the next few years. I first used a cotton ball and a witch  
hazel solution to cleanse my skin of impurities. Next, I smoothed on a  
moisturizer, which made my skin soft and smooth. The trickiest part  
was the foundation, which had to be applied heavily over the area  
where a beard was trying to grow in. I shaved three times a day in  
order to keep the whiskers at bay, leaving tiny red bumps wherever the  
blade went. These had to be covered.  
  
The eye makeup wasn't so tricky. I became skilled at using the little  
brushes and applicators and a genius when wielding my eyeliner. It  
paved the way for the cosmetology classes I took later in life.  
  
The lipstick was my favorite part. With it, I was able to create  
pouty, sensuous lips. It truly transformed me. I completed my look  
with jewelry and pantyhose, though none of the shoes there fit my  
large feet. Then, I would stand up and admire my handiwork before the  
full-length, standing mirror. I was beautiful.  
  
Everything would be removed and put away before Rachael returned.  
  
This was my little secret. No one else knew.  
  
  
  
  
I once overheard Aunt Alice and Grandmother speaking in hushed tones  
in our living room. I was seventeen, ready to graduate high school.  
That was the day I found out who I really was - and why Mother hated  
me.  
  
I was the product of a rape. Mother had been late one evening from a  
bridge club meeting. Walking on her way home, a man jumped from behind  
a parked car and attacked her. Grandmother shook her head and  
commented that Mother had not been the same since.  
  
I was intrigued. Who was my real father? What events in his life had  
led him to attack Mother? It also explained the hatred Mother afforded  
me. Would I have felt the same, were it me? I suppose I should've been  
horrified by the discovery. Instead, I was fascinated.  
  
  
  
  
  
As a young adult, I discovered a need like no other. I became  
entranced with women, feeling urges unlike any I'd ever known.  
Sometimes, on a bus or standing in line behind a beautiful young  
woman, I felt the overwhelming desire to reach out and touch her hair.  
The sight of a woman running long, perfectly manicured nails through  
her hair was sometimes so erotic, I would spill into my pants. I'd  
never been with a woman, but I was sure this was better than  
intercourse could ever be.  
  
Soon, all I wanted was to have some of that feeling for myself, to  
reach out and touch any time I pleased. I began to fantasize not about  
my sister's deaths anymore, but about cutting thick locks away and  
hoarding them in my house. I imagined what a pair of scissors would  
feel like in my hand, the weight of them and what sound they would  
make as they sliced through full and shiny tresses.  
  
I found it was controllable. After graduating from cosmetology school,  
I began working in a salon, loving the daily exposure to the different  
colors and textures of women's hair. It was heavenly.  
  
Some nights, I would dress in the prettiest ensembles I could find in  
my size, taking great care with my makeup and wigs. They were made of  
the clippings I'd procured at the salon and woven by myself. I loved  
to parade around at a local drag club in my new hair, but I never  
spoke to anyone. I never took a lover. Those things didn't interest  
me. I wanted only to be seen, to show off my beauty. When I was found  
out by a friend of the family, my sisters and Mother never spoke to me  
again. I think they were afraid. I quit dressing up soon after - it no  
longer held the satisfaction I desired.  
  
  
  
  
As I grew older, my fondness of the dead became an obsession. I  
yearned to touch the cold skin and comb their hair with my fingers.  
Sometimes, I even imagined making love to them. They would be so  
giving, so caring - if I made a mistake, they would patiently wait for  
me to correct the problem. I couldn't dream of a better introduction  
to intimacy.  
  
After an unfortunate encounter with my boss at the salon, I was forced  
to find employment elsewhere. An ad in the newspaper for an assistant  
at Janelli-Heller Funeral Home captured my attention. Within a week, I  
was hired.  
  
Watching the mourners weep for their lost loved ones was exhilarating.   
I soon realized I couldn't deny myself any longer. The dizzying urge  
to snip locks of hair from the pretty corpses became too great for me.  
It was what I'd always dreamed of, what I'd always wanted, but never  
knew until then - the hair of the dead. The beautiful dead.  
  
It amazed me that the texture never changed, a stark contrast to the  
stiff and cold skin. I found myself obsessed with the prospect of  
death, of its perfection. People would sob and cry for the loss of a  
young woman, berating God and declaring the injustice of a life with  
such potential being cut short.  
  
I, however, reveled in it, eager to assist in the process of  
preservation. I would let my touches linger over their breasts as I  
buttoned their blouses sometimes and loved to run my hands over their  
nude bodies. Their nipples were always in a state of arousal. This  
fascinated me. I trembled as I applied the makeup and combed slowly  
through their hair, alone in the room after the embalming. I wanted to  
make it last, to savor every second of our time together and commit it  
to memory. It was enough to last me until the final closing of the  
casket where I would finally take what was mine.  
  
Not even the autopsy cases bothered me or kept me from deriving my  
pleasure from their cold, but giving bodies. One of my fondest  
memories is of a beautiful brunette who'd arrived late in the day. I  
ran my hands lightly over her stomach, up to her firm breasts and  
across her stiff nipples. The Y-incision left on her delicate belly  
and chest was so pretty. I found myself unable to resist licking the  
puckered flesh around the sturdy thread holding her together. I smile  
every time I think about it.  
  
Mr. Toews never knew that I stole into the lower rooms of the funeral  
home and collected my treasures. I stuffed a pillowcase with luxurious  
hair of all colors, which I slept on every night. Every attractive  
young woman that had passed through our doors contributed to my  
collection. In the quiet solitude of my bedroom each night, I would  
rest my head atop my soft pillow and pull out the Ziploc bag filled  
with the excess hair I'd gathered. I would reach inside, rolling the  
silkiness between my fingers and rub it across my face and bare chest  
as I touched myself.  
  
  
  
When I was caught at the funeral home, I was still high on the  
adrenaline rush of a conquest achieved. I had what I wanted from that  
place. However, I quickly realized my mistake. Soon, I was forced to  
resort to grave digging to satisfy my urges. It just wasn't enough. I  
needed more.  
  
One morning, I went out to get the paper and saw an article warning of  
a possible stalker in the area in the corner of the front page. It  
cautioned women to be careful and listed several safety tips and  
defense mechanisms, urging them to be aware of their surroundings.  
That made me smile.  
  
It also gave me an idea. What if I were to create my own bodies? They  
would be fresh and I could take my time with them, rather than having  
to rush around for half-decayed tidbits. A plan formed in my mind. I  
would seek out the easiest, most available donors, as I liked to think  
of them, and harvest from them what I needed.  
  
The thought was exciting. Now that my supply had been cut off, thanks  
to an unexpected, late arrival by Mr. Toews, I had to find a new  
source anyway.  
  
Driving down the streets of downtown Minneapolis, I found exactly what  
I was looking for. A row of prostitutes lined the sidewalk next to an  
abandoned building. All were vying for my attention, but only one  
caught my eye - an angel in black, with her golden tresses falling  
delicately over her shoulders and down her arms.  
  
I liked blondes. I loved the way the light glinted off of each strand  
and shone brightly in the sun.  
  
She complained about the apartment being cold, but I thought the  
temperature was quite lovely. I liked it cold. It enhanced the mood.  
  
It was unfortunate that Marilyn at Ficicello's chose that particular  
moment to call me. It forced me to take drastic measures, depriving me  
of my fantasy. Instead of taking her life in the tub, as I had so  
desperately wanted to, I had to chase after her. I dragged her into  
the kitchen by her hair and pulled the butcher knife from the block  
where it rested, then yanked her back into the bathroom. She fought,  
but weakly and in vain. I shoved the knife into her stomach, to the  
hilt, and pulled forcibly upward, causing some of her entrails to peek  
out from behind the splayed wound.  
  
She took her bath then.  
  
I refused to be discouraged by the change of plan, instead deciding to  
make the best of it. I toweled her body off and blow-dried her satiny  
hair, then laid her gently upon my bed. The bed was chosen  
specifically for it's wrought-iron handiwork, which reminded me of the  
cemetery's gothic fences surrounding our large family plot. I liked to  
imagine I was lying atop that plot when I was alone in the dark with  
my bundle of hair. Beautifully decayed funeral sprays decorated the  
room, borrowed from the dumpster of a nearby cemetery.  
  
She was perfect.  
  
I took some of her fingers with a wire-cutter and carefully extracted  
the nails of her remaining fingers with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.  
The biggest chunk of the time was spent trimming away her gorgeous  
blonde locks.  
  
Once I was finished with her, I dumped her near where she worked. The  
dogs could have her for all I cared. I had what I wanted.  
  
  
  
  
On my new job for Ficicello's, I stumbled upon something wonderful.  
Lisa Brumfield was so like my sisters and her mother was so trusting,  
telling a complete stranger about their lax security habits. I  
collected a wad of brown hair out of their wastebasket, giving myself  
an appetizer to hold me over until the main course was available.  
  
If it weren't for Claire, I would be sampling that main course now,  
rather than sitting in this jail cell, staring uselessly at the four  
walls. Her hair was too short for my liking anyway. What I really  
craved were those perfect, pink fingernails of hers. I'm angry with  
myself for being so careless as to get caught.  
  
She was so pretty, sitting in that classroom. I knew I had to have her  
as soon as I saw those manicured nails scrape lightly beneath her  
cropped, blond hair. It was a shame that I startled her. She had  
campus security on me before I knew what was happening.  
  
But all these thoughts are swept away as soon as I see her. She's a  
vision, a portrait of perfection in her serious business suit and  
glowing red hair. A lawyer? No, lawyers don't travel in such large  
packs.  
  
I hear the tall man identify himself as FBI. So she's an agent? That's  
fine with me. I don't discriminate when it comes to my donors.  
  
The deep auburn of her shiny hair refracts the light, creating a dance  
of colorful prisms in the dull jail. I am mesmerized by this. Never  
before have I encountered such a rich and glossy shade of red. The  
clippings I have at home are either too red, too blonde or chemically  
enhanced. Not her. She's natural. I can tell.  
  
I want her to come closer so I can touch it, feel the texture and  
weight of it in my hands. I want to bury my nose in it and inhale the  
fragrance deeply. She's so very beautiful.  
  
  
  
I want her.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
